Crabapple trees are full of ripe for picking fruit, here in N. E. Minneapolis, in what used to be a Polish neighborhood, when they were planted.
A House of Worship on every other block, bars on each.
My kinda place, and Leo's. He'd go to the bars, not the other places. See why I love him, so? ;-)
Back to the crabapples. Leo survived on them, and other fruit lining roads in then post-WWII Czechoslovakia, unemployed, wandering after the Death March, getting stronger, making his way to Prague, to make His Dent in the Universe...
These days, nobody even knows what a crabapple is, or how wonderfully sour it tastes. He'd be horrified!
So, in Leo's honor, I'll see if I can get some clear minded people together - say the Hmong residents around here who know hot to squeeze blood from a turnip - to pick those trees, and make jam like grandma use to.
Could work.
Ties the present community to its history, the pre-existing renewable resource gets utilized - again, cause it sure as hell was back when, dat's why da Pollacks planted dem trees - and everything spiraling upwards, again.
Plus, it tastes YUMMY.
Leo would approve. Fruits, berries, all that wild, sweet and sour stuff was always his fave. :-)))
American as a Chevy and a crabapple pie. :-)
Crabapple Pie is a Labor of Love - Vegetable Gardener
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